


I'll Be Here When You Make it Home

by vgkahl



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, because why the fuck not, but its not and this does not pretend coming out in pro sports is fun, i don't even like AUs for mitch and auston yet i wrote 16k words of one, i would love coming out to be sunshine rainbows and gay jokes, mitch is not a leaf but auston is and so is dylan strome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 03:37:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17655308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgkahl/pseuds/vgkahl
Summary: Auston dealt with the early teenage realization that he's gay perfectly fine, thank you very much. He didn't undergo a deep denial phase, or overcompensate with toxic straight boy masculinity, even if he isn't marching in pride parades any time soon. He knows who he is, but as the face of an NHL franchise, it's never been worth the risk. It isn't a question or decision he loses sleep over. He knows, given the opportunity, he’ll choose hockey every single time.That is, until Mitch Marner ruins his life.





	I'll Be Here When You Make it Home

**Author's Note:**

> mitch and auston won't leave my head and hockey is my emotional dumping ground  
> i wrote this fic in a tangled mess of present and past tense because i can never decide which i prefer and then i change it all after, so sorry for all the tense issues. i tried to catch them all but i definitely missed a few.  
> title is from windows by lewis watson  
> see end notes for more specific TWs

 

Auston knows he’s in trouble from the first time he sees Mitch’s crooked smile and the tint of red that flushes his face from the bite of the Canadian winter. 

He hasn’t noticed Auston standing at the edge of the street, staring him down. Instead, he’s too pre-occupied teaching a girl with messy braids and an oversized Leafs shirt how to shoot the rubber ball, which is—

—well, there are few things cuter than a teenage boy who exudes chaos and is practically vibrating with unbridled energy but takes a moment to be kind to a young kid who has clearly never picked up a hockey stick in her life. Auston is so caught up staring at the brown hair that sticks up at the back of this cute boy’s head that he barely notices the hand that is laid on his shoulder and forces his attention away from the guy that Auston has already mentally stamped with a warning label. 

“You enjoying your first Strome street hockey event?” Dylan asks. His smile is stretched across his entire face, and the bags that normally bruise his eyes have faded in the crisp air of his childhood home. Stromer’s entire family is fucking crazy, Auston thinks, holding street hockey in the winter. Their friends and neighbors are crazier still for actually showing up, but that’s what Auston gets for living in Toronto.

“I can’t believe you actually do this in winter. Isn’t street hockey for warm weather?” Auston asks. Miraculously, there is no snow lining the ground, but it still has to be around zero degrees (in Fahrenheit, because Auston hasn’t been _that_ brainwashed by Canada yet), and most of Dylan’s friends aren’t even wearing hats. Dylan ruffles a hand through his hair and sighs deeply, clearly not in the mood for the discussion they’ve had twice over. 

“We get it, you’re from Arizona and you don’t know what snow is,” Dylan quips, lightly rapping Auston’s ankle with the untaped wooden stick in his hand. “Be on my team?”

Auston glances back to where the cute brunet is now dangling the gloves at the 10-year-old boy in goal, who is clearly soaking in the attention. “I think two pro hockey players on a team might be slightly unfair, especially when they’re power play lineys.” 

“We’ll send Ryan to the other team,” Dylan says, referring to his brother on the Rangers, “and they have can also have Mitch. He played in the O for a while.”

“Who’s Mitch?” Auston asks, a pit already forming in his stomach. He knows most of the guys their age mingling around the frozen grass and crowded street, except for—

“Mitchy!” Dylan hollers, cupping his hands around his mouth (entirely unnecessary, as they were a maximum of ten feet away) and waving over the cute boy.

And, oh god, his eyes are a soft shade of blue that make Auston feel like the glaring winter sun is beaming down directly on his face and permanently imprinting two burnt circles of red onto his cheeks. Dylan throws an arm around Mitch, showcasing their height difference of at least a few inches as he does so. 

“Mitch Marner, Auston Matthews. Auston Matthews, Mitch Marner,” Dylan introduces, gesturing between the two accordingly. Mitch sticks out a hand, tossing a careless smile Auston’s way while rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, Stromer, I watch your games. I know who Auston is,” he sighs, jabbing Dylan in the ribs with an elbow as he simultaneously shakes Auston’s hand. Auston can’t help the grin that tugs at the edges of his mouth while he covers Mitch’s gloved hand with his own. 

“I haven’t heard your name yet, so Dylan’s a bad friend,” Auston jokes, allowing a slight breath of air to escape in the form of a half-chuckle as Dylan shapes his mouth in a faux-offended gasp. “You should stop watching.” 

Mitch matches Auston’s small grin and nods. “I’ll sell my Strome jersey on eBay and pick up a Matthews one.”

“I’ll sign it.”

“I’m a starving university student, so I’ll sell it once you win the Hart, just a warning.”

Auston and Mitch still haven’t dropped hands, and the black cotton of Mitch’s thumb just barely covers the 34 stitched in Maple Leafs blue on the edge of Auston’s gloves. Auston knows his mouth is twisted in the way he hates, the grin that makes his nose flare up weirdly and shows off his teeth too much, but he can’t bring his face back to neutral. 

“Sell it after we win a Stanley Cup. That’s when it’ll really matter.” He’s hyperaware that Dylan has narrowed his brown eyes at the way their hands wrap around each other, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the crinkles forming around Mitch’s eyes. 

“Bold thing to tell a long-suffering Leafs fan,” Mitch says. He finally loosens his grip, swiping his fingers over the 34 one last time before he stuffs the same hand into the pocket of his black sweatpants. 

Auston opens his mouth to chirp back that Mitch has probably only suffered more having to see Dylan on the ice. He wants to bring back their third party to the conversation, which might force Auston to stare at something besides the bump on Mitch’s nose that suits his face perfectly, but Ryan shouts for the team draft to begin and breaks the air between them anyways. 

Auston can be forgiven for missing half the passes Dylan shoots his way, mumbling an vague excuse that he wants to give the kids a chance. He doesn’t give a shit if someone on the other team gets Auston’s turnover if it meant Mitch will lift the kid on his shoulders following the breakaway, then celebrate with a loud yell that should be obnoxious but is somewhat endearing.

As the sun goes down, Dylan and Auston have to make their excuses to head back downtown to their according apartments with the excuse of an early practice. Auston spends most of his parting goodbyes trying not to look back to where Mitch is now playing forward and goalie.

He manages to make his exit without a cheating and looking back more than two times, which is honestly pretty good and means he can be forgiven for his next actions.

He takes Dylan’s phone under the guise of complaining about the song choices (Dylan’s music taste is genuinely horrific, but Auston has long grown used to it on drives to and from the rink), and he carefully sneaks through the snapchat contacts until he finds one simply labeled ‘Marns’. There was no reason he couldn’t have just asked Dylan for Mitch’s number, and no reason he couldn’t have asked for Mitch’s snapchat himself, except that…

Dylan had seen the way he smiled at Mitch, the way Auston had given Mitch the looks he knew should be reserved for the delicate blonde girls his teammates rifled through until they finally settled on one nice enough to marry. 

On the night before his NHL draft, he’d carefully and maturely promised himself he’d never give away his sexuality to a teammate. He’d looked at the suit hanging in his closet, his skin still scalding hot from the water he used to scrub away the taste of a nameless boy from a club he hadn’t been legally allowed to enter, and promised himself that he wouldn’t throw away the career he’d worked tirelessly for just because he liked the scratchy feeling of stubble in a heated kiss or taught muscle in the arm that scratched his back during sex. 

Mitch is too interconnected, not fitting neatly in the sector of pitch-black club versus hockey rink that Auston uses to divide his life, but Auston finds himself lying in bed, staring at the notification that Mitch has added him back on Snapchat until Auston’s phone turns dark and he’s left only with a buildup of relief and fear clawing at his chest. 

 

* * *

 

A red square appears next to Mitch’s name, and the itch of temptation haunts Auston’s fingertip where it twitches over the message. The locker room is loud around him, mostly dominated by Mo and Jake arguing about stick tape and Patty telling Dylan a drawn-out story about one of his boys’ baseball games. 

Still, the snapchat feels dangerous, a bomb for everyone to see that would tick from 10 to 0 if Auston dares to open it. He steals a glance around the room, double-checking no one is looking at him or his phone screen, and clicks on the notification.

It’s a picture of a computer screen, marred with dirt and a scratch down the left side. On it is a picture of a Matthews jersey, captioned “do I bite the bullet?”

Auston watches the time count down to zero until the image switches back to a list of names, Mitch’s at the top. Auston places his phone to the side for a minute, focusing on untying his laces so he can’t smile too hard at the fact that Mitch messaged him first. 

After he kicks off the first skate, he picks back up the phone and double-taps Mitch’s contact before he can overthink it. He takes a picture of his practice jersey where he’s dumped it on the floor and types out, “why pay for it when you can get an authentic sweaty one.”

He presses send and clicks the power button on the side before he can regret his decision. The locker room is slowly thinning, and Auston wants to fit in a quality nap and Facetime call with his sisters before he has to head back for the game. Also, Dylan drove them to the rink, and he won’t hesitate to leave Auston behind and force him to call an Uber, because he’s an asshole like that.

Auston doesn’t dare to look at his phone again until he’s safely back in his house, settled into his bed with the blinds down in preparation for his pre-game nap. The air is black around him, sheets pulled over the hoodie that he’s already regretting. The darkness that fills his room feels safe, and he scrolls through his new notifications, pretending he isn’t seeking out one in particular. There are a few texts in the team group chat, Dylan informing him Auston forgot his hat in the car, his mom sending him a picture of their dog, and there— two Snapchat notifications from Mitch. He ignores all the other ones, trying not to acknowledge the significance of that action, and clicks open the two pictures. 

The first is a photo of Mitch crinkling his nose in mock disgust. He’s written, “keep your sweat away from me,” then included a second bar of text reading, “but I will not turn down selling that on ebay.” 

Auston places the sleeve of his hoodie between his teeth, biting down on the material and shaking his head. He’s exchanged a maximum of what, five sentences and some friendly street-hockey chirps with the guy, and suddenly Auston is acting like his little sister when she went through her Harry Styles phase.

Auston takes a grounding breath before he looks away from Mitch’s cute expression and clicks to the next picture. 

It’s Mitch in a Leafs shirt, sending a thumbs up and his mouth gaping open like a dork. 

“oh btw I’ll be at the game tonight thanks to winter break. Toss me your sweaty jersey.”

This time, Auston has to bury his face into one of his pillows and gently scream out his feelings in a cloud of hot air that ricochetes back against him. There is no reason he should care this much about a boy he literally met yesterday, no reason he should be allowing himself to flirt back without a second thought, but he can’t bring himself to stop. 

“I’ll score for you AND give you my jersey if you come to the locker room after the game,” he messages, not bothering to send a picture. It takes no more than a minute of scrolling through Instagram before he’s told Mitch is typing, and maybe ten more seconds before he has a reply to open. 

Mitch simply sends a row of exclamation points, a red heart, and the monkey emoji with the hands over the eyes. Auston has no idea what any of that means, but he saves the reply to the chat regardless and sends a black heart. A black heart makes it seem more no-homo, even if nothing about Mitch and Auston had been representative of bros. 

Auston tosses back some lazy replies to the remaining messages and plugs his phone into the charger on his bedside table. He strips off the hoodie, not in the mood to suffer heat stroke, and stares at the small spot of sun that leaks through his blinds and reflects off the picture frame of an Arizona sunset on his wall. The small spot twists and wanes on the edge of the portrait, matching the uneven thumping in Auston’s heart as he thinks of the risky border he’s standing on with a boy he barely knows. 

A boy, who Dylan is close with, and who is either comfortably gay and out or so obliviously heterosexual that Auston will end up heartbroken. Dylan has never said a word about LGBT+ issues, and Auston is certainly never going to invite the conversation or consider for a second the risk of telling Dylan the truth and jeopardizing his future, but maybe…

He rolls back over and taps out the text, thanking auto-correct for fixing the mistakes his fat and trembling fingers can’t type correctly. It isn’t risky, per se. It is, however, toeing a line that Auston of a few years ago couldn’t have fathomed crossing, when he watched coming out videos on youtube and ached to be one of the people speaking their truth. 

As soon as the message sends, he drops his phone back on the wooden table and turns back to see that the spot of sunlight on the picture frame has finally disappeared into the winter sky. He has maybe ten minutes before his alarm will urge him to put on his game-day suit, and he hasn’t drifted off for more than five minutes total, but his heart is back to a normal pace.

> ** Auston Matthews:** hey, can you make sure Mitch comes down to the locker room after the game

**Dylan Strome:** sure

**Dylan Strome:** wait how did you know Mitch is coming

**Dylan Strome:** are you replacing me with mitch

**Dylan Strome:** is miTCH replacing me with yOU

**Dylan Strome:** you better be awake u fucker I’m leaving to pick you up in 5 

 

* * *

 

Auston doesn’t score, but he does have a pretty sweet assist on Dylan’s power-play goal that ends up being the game-winner, so he really doesn’t appreciate the attitude Mitch is giving him.

“I’m just saying, I was promised a goal, not that you’d help someone else get a goal,” he complains. They’re standing in the hallway outside the dressing room, Auston in a lazily buttoned dress shirt and clutching a Matthews jersey behind his back. Dylan disappeared after a minute of polite chatter, and Auston is trying not to think too hard about the fact that Dylan might be catching on to Auston’s heart eyes. Instead, Auston kicks a dress shoe into the white tile and lets out an exaggerated sigh. 

“Well, if I broke that promise, why bother keeping another?” he says, dramatically pulling the jersey from its hiding spot. “I’m sure you don’t want the jersey of a guy who just gets an assist.”

Mitch leans forward, snatching the jersey before Auston even has a chance to react. He pulls the Strome jersey off his back and replaces it with the 34, struggling a little to get his arms through the sleeves and emerging from the head hole with his hair a hot mess. 

“It’s not sweaty and lacks a signature, but the fact that you touched it might get me an extra 20,” Mitch teases, adjusting the oversized jersey over his shoulders. Mitch isn’t necessarily short, probably stands at 6 feet if he cranes his neck a little, but he’s skinny, and the jersey drowns him in a way that leaves Auston thinking a little too much about how he’d look in the rest of Auston’s clothes. 

“Glad you don’t need this garbage anymore,” Auston says, plucking the Strome jersey from Mitch’s arms. Mostly, he just wants something tangible in his hands to resist adjusting the new jersey evenly across Mitch’s shoulder and running a hand down the sleeve. 

“Uh, who had a game-winning goal tonight?” Dylan asks, appearing out of nowhere from behind Auston and grabbing back the jersey. Before Auston has an opportunity to think of a clever chirp, Dylan redirects his attention. “Mitch, you heading back or staying at mine?”

“Nah, my friend’s waiting for me, so I’m gonna bounce,” Mitch says, holding a hand out to finally take back the Strome jersey. At Auston’s raised eyebrow, he lowers his voice to a loud whisper so Dylan can still hear. “Don’t worry, I’ll throw it away on my way out.”

Auston gave Mitch an unsure smile after Mitch hugs Dylan goodbye and turns to Auston. They don’t know each other well enough to give a friendly hug, but their few interactions feel like Auston’s revealed so much of himself to Mitch, who can’t possibly know how close he is to busting open Auston’s best-kept secret.

Auston settles for reach out for a quick fist bump, not letting his knuckles linger against Mitch’s, and yelling, “Keep wearing the 34. It suits you,” as Mitch walks away. 

In hindsight, not the most heterosexual moment Auston’s ever had, but it’s worth it for the wide-mouth grin that flashes over Mitch’s face before he disappears down the hallway. 

Auston has to take a moment to collect himself, not daring to look at Dylan. Instead, he lifts his arm to scratch at his right cheek, which blocks his face from Stromer long enough to cover the cheesy smile that he’s let slip too many times in the last few days. 

_This is fine,_ Auston reasons as Dylan began chattering about the game on their way out the arena. They have five days without games because of Christmas, and Auston flies back to Scottsdale tomorrow. He’ll see his sisters, get stuffed with food, settle in to listen to the confusing mass of Spanglish flying around the house when both sides of the family gather around the tree, and his two-day flirtation with Mitch Marner will be forgotten .

 

* * *

 

It is not forgotten.

It’s the fault of a simple misdirected Snapchat, an innocent picture of Auston’s dog that he _swear_ he’d sent to his friend Mila, who loves unsolicited dog pictures. It’s not his fault Mitch’s name is listed right under. Auston has big fingers and a small phone, and it can’t be helped if his finger hits the wrong name by total accident. 

He knows on a more-than-subconscious level he’d seen the wrong name before clicking the final send, but sue him, Mitch hasn’t contacted him since the game, and Auston misses the ease of talking to him. 

Before he even has a chance to send the obligatory “wrong person, sorry” snap, he receives back a picture of an expressionless Mitch in a grey hoodie with “!!! More dog pics!” covering his chin. 

For a second, Auston hesitates, looks at the empty living room, then sends in the messenger function: “what’s your number I’ll text you so many fucking dog pics.”

Auston can’t decide if it’s the least or most flirtatious message he’s sent yet, and he stares at the black heart he’d messaged the other day as he waits for Mitch to start typing. A few seconds later, a text message appeared from an unknown number.

 

 **Unknown:** got your number from stromer

**Unknown:** dog pic for dog pic?

 

* * *

“I’m just saying that Fortnite is an objectively better made game than Call of Duty,” Auston argues, scowling in disbelief despite the fact that Mitch can’t see his facial expression.

He’s pacing back and forth in his room to avoid the mass hysteria that is Christmas dinner preparation. Technically, Christmas was yesterday, but the whole family is gathering today for dinner, and the thought of that many people crowding Auston’s space on his last night at home puts him in a foul mood, so he’s escaped to his bedroom to call Mitch for a reprieve from the chaos. Even without a warning text, Mitch still picks up on the second ring.

“I guarantee you’re just saying that because you suck at Call of Duty.”

Mitch isn’t _wrong,_ but Auston is stubborn to the core, and he’ll spout some bullshit about graphics and skins until he’s blue in the face. 

Auston has spent a concerning amount of time on his phone the last few days for a person who normally doesn’t text back on time and tries to limit social media. It starts with Mitch texting him stupid memes, then sending voice messages rather than typing out his texts, until it was Christmas Eve and they chose a phone call over sleep. 

They’d talked about the most random subjects, like the best pattern for pajama pants (plaid, no contest) and the dumbest hockey accident they’d ever had (Mitch tripped over his own stick during a goal celly and had to undergo concussion protocol five minutes into the first period. Auston had offered a starting bid of $100 for the footage). 

Mitch has a lot to talk about, and most of it is random chatter that lulls Auston in a state of total calm, but still, after several hours, Auston can probably write a solid rough draft of the Mitch Marner autobiography. 

Mitch’s taste in cereal is questionable, and he has a cute, high-pitched laugh that is probably too loud for the time of night, and Auston wishes he could record the sound and play it on repeat. He has to settle for making as many dumb jokes as possible and hoping one lands and inspires the surprised giggle.

Mitch is studying media and communication at a university an hour outside of Toronto, and he plays hockey in a rec league that the opponents once tried to legitimately kick him out of. Mitch has an insane hockey IQ, one Auston can spot without needing to see a single clip of Mitch anywhere near a sheet of ice. Apparently, this talent, combined with being primed to go top 10 in the NHL draft, means Mitch is racking up as many points in a single game as some guys get all season. 

Auston also finds out the answer to the question he’s been curious about since Dylan had mentioned that Mitch played in the O. He’d played for the London Knights until, he informs Auston in a matter-of-fact way, he’d, “totally fucking lost it, man. I had five panic attacks in three days, and then I just stopped eating for two weeks. I took a break from hockey, went back home, felt better, then spent intermission the first game back throwing up and legitimately thinking I was going to kill myself.”

He’s casual about it in a way that lets Auston know he’s come to terms with the loss he’d suffered, but Auston has to stop tears from staining his eyes red as he toes the line of sensitivity and asks Mitch if he misses the game, or thinks about what might’ve been.

Auston can almost see the shrug on Mitch’s shoulders as he replies. “Yeah, for sure I’ve thought about it, and I love hockey, but I think I would’ve had this breakdown at some point. I’d rather have it before I took hockey as a permanent career path and had to quit the NHL. Plus, I can work in hockey without donning a jersey, you know? It would’ve been really fucking cool to make it, and it hurt for a while, but I’m good now.”

If it had been anyone else, Auston would’ve had no idea what to say. He would’ve blustered through a speech about mental health and clumsily thanked them for trusting him, probably thus ensuring they never did it again. With Mitch, safely tucked away in Toronto while Auston has only the cool glass on his cheek and a soft blanket he’s crumbled between his fists, the reply is easy. “That was the most mature decision a seventeen year-old has probably ever made. I’m glad you did what you needed to in order to be here.” Then, a second later, “Are you happy?”

There’s a pause on the other side, not one that makes Auston think he said the wrong thing, but one of contemplation. Auston can almost picture a furrow between Mitch’s eyebrows as he tries to answer Auston’s incredibly broad question accurately, because Auston is learning that’s just who Mitch is. He talks a lot, but it’s not senseless rambling. What he says matters, both to Mitch and Auston himself. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty happy, dude. Plus, I can eat pop-tarts without worrying about what the nutritionists will say, unlike some people.” 

Auston loosens his grip on the blanket then, his shoulders dropping their tension at the reassurance and Mitch’s gentle ease back into banter. 

They’d stayed on the phone another hour, and by then, the sun had started to rise for Christmas day in Scottsdale. 

Auston blames the bags under his eyes and his ear-to-ear smile on the magic of the holiday season. 

 

* * *

 

The thing about Mitch is that even after Auston is back to the regular, full-body exhaustion of the hockey season and Mitch is back at school, crushing some poor rec league guys and crying over his mandatory science course, he somehow becomes just as big a part of Auston’s life as any of the teammates Auston spends most of his day around. 

He isn’t sure whether to hate or love Dylan Strome for bringing him Mitch. 

Everywhere Auston goes, Mitch is there. Without fail, there’s a stupid tweet waiting for him when he wakes up, or a 12 part series of snapchats of Mitch narrating a 3 AM cookie baking session, or a play-by-play commentary of the game that Auston had literally been on the ice for. It’s endearingly stupid, and Auston loves getting to know Mitch’s quirks through the other side of a cell phone, except for the few instances he’s had to block Mitch’s number to force him to study.

Both times, Mitch spammed Dylan with memes to forward to Auston until Dylan had blocked him too. 

And Auston’s a lot of things, emotionally constipated being one of them, but he isn’t totally stupid. He knows that whatever he and Mitch are doing is not entirely platonic. At several points, Willy and Patty pull Auston aside and demand to know more information about the secret girlfriend he’s hiding from them and constantly on the phone with. 

It’s harmless, really, except for the reality check of Dylan.

Even if Mitch isn’t there physically, Auston accidentally makes him present in every conversation. Auston will see a beet in the grocery store and remember how a panicked Mitch once interrupted Auston’s nap to call and share his fear that he’d permanently stained his white countertops with beet juice. 

Sometimes, he’ll pass a movie theater and remember a movie Mitch had mentioned he was interested in seeing, so they’ll FaceTime, put a movie on at the same time, and bitch about how bad it is and never get to the ending before they start talking about something entirely unrelated. 

Occasionally, he’ll be on the phone with his sister, who will be complaining about one of her classes, which reminds Auston of that one story Mitch told about his calculus professor who threw a chair against a wall, and it’s—

Well, Auston doesn’t realize it’s too much until he’s at dinner with Dylan, who informs Auston he talks about Mitch like a proud and lovesick boyfriend. 

“I do not talk about him like that, what the fuck?” Auston laughs. Dylan is sitting across from him, dipping sweet potato fries in honey mustard and trying to hide a smirk. Auston already regrets agreeing to a pre-game meal. Dylan was friends with Mitch first, and of course he might catch on, but it’s not like there’s any tangible label for Dylan to identify.

“I’m just saying, he isn’t even here and you’ve spent most of the time making conversation about him.” 

“He’s a cool dude, and he’s become one of my best friends. I’m gonna mention him,” Auston retorts. He picks up his fork and starts cutting the remains of his burger into tiny pieces, then flattening them into a pile of mush and ketchup. Dylan just makes a gentle sound of clearly sarcastic agreement, and Auston doesn’t dare to look at his eyes. 

Sure, Stromer is aggressively straight, and Auston _still_ doesn’t even know Mitch’s sexuality or if he’s out to Dylan, but the thought of Dylan even possibly suspecting makes the breath freeze in Auston’s lungs.

Thanks to the magically stupid brain of straight boys, Auston is met with a simple, “Alright, dude, but then I expect you to talk about me just as much.”

Auston ceases the destruction of his overpriced hamburger, leaning back against his chair and letting out a snort that’s louder than the weak joke deserves. “Bold of you to assume you’re my friend.”

The tense air between them, the one that was probably only apparent to Auston, releases at the chirp, and they fall back into the easy banter that characterizes their friendship —supportive and natural, but always carefully maintaining a safe level of bro-distance about any feelings deeper than hockey stress.

Still, Auston is careful not to let Mitch’s name slip through his lips for the rest of dinner, and when Mitch texts Auston before Dylan to let him know he’s driving up for their game against the Habs next week, Auston doesn’t even try to chirp Stromer about how Mitch loves him more. 

Instead, he excuses himself to the bathroom and runs cold water over his face. He’s trying desperately hard not to let the nauseating guilt bring back up the remains of his burger, but his head won’t stop telling him he’s a bad person for allowing Mitch get this close to a relationship he won’t be allowed to talk about, a relationship so interweaved with the lives of professional hockey players that even Mitch and Auston’s weird in-between set off a few land mines in his teammates’ pea-sized brains. 

It also says a lot about Auston’s masochism that he still can’t resist texting back with 3 red hearts and an invitation to stay at his place for the night.

 

* * *

 

Mitch wears the 34 jersey because he has no respect for how hard Auston’s heart already has to work to keep beating when he gets to see the cute freckles around Mitch’s mouth and his terrible new haircut in person.

If Auston thought it was difficult to keep from touching Mitch the first time he’d put on the jersey, it’s next to impossible now. And the thing was, it should be awkward. They have technically only met twice before they forged a sense of closeness and vulnerability Auston has never allowed in any friendship before this one. Their relationship was forged mostly through hours-long phone calls and increasingly bad memes, but Mitch somehow knows everything that makes Auston tick and can talk him down when he senses Auston is upset, and Auston knows without fail when Mitch is stressed or homesick and needs a distraction.

All this taken into consideration, it should’ve been hard for Auston to know how to interact with Mitch being physically in front of him, but the ease that defines their interactions over the phone unquestionably extends into the arms that Mitch wraps around Auston’s waist. They hold each other a hair too long, then continue their conversation about live action remakes from hours before, like one of them had simply taken a bathroom break instead of played an entire hockey game.

Auston has invited Dylan along, of course, because if Auston misses Mitch this much, he can only imagine what so many years of built-up friendship and distance make Dylan feel. Also, it’s probably too suspicious to completely ice out Dylan, who has known Mitch a lot longer, on Mitch’s only night in town. They play some Fortnite, where Mitch absolutely embarrasses both of them, until Dylan makes his excuses with a well-timed yawn and a mumble about their upcoming road trip. 

“You’ve got a road trip?” Mitch frowns, glancing over at the time. He’s long since changed from the Leafs jersey into a pair of sweatpants and a plain green shirt that catches Auston off-guard every time he looks to his right. Mitch has somehow gotten cuter since December, which is just unfair to Auston’s mental well-being,

“Yeah, but we don’t head out until tomorrow evening,” Auston says. He isn’t desperately worried about what time he goes to bed. This concern is especially tossed to the wayside when Mitch is sitting on his couch, a drop of tomato sauce still staining the corner of his lips from the garbage frozen meal Auston had found buried in the back of his freezer (“Matts, I’m a student, this is fucking gourmet for me,” he’d insisted, and Auston had to try very hard not to watch the way he sucked down the noodles). His fingers twitch to wipe away the spot, so he stuffs his hand under the back cushion. 

“I don’t know why I asked as if I don’t have the schedule memorized,” Mitch laughs, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s actually kind of the reason I came down here for this game, before you guys are gone for a while. I wanted to talk to you?”

His voice lifts up at the end, like he isn’t sure it’s okay to ask that, and Auston extracts his hand from under the couch cushion to dig a nail into the skin of his thigh. 

It was just— if this conversation is headed where Auston thinks it is, a careful examination of the way Auston texts too many heart emojis, or how he’s already snuck Mitch’s hoodie into his closet and noticed one of his own crumpled into Mitch’s bag; if it’s any of the above, he’s afraid he might spend tonight breaking Mitch’s heart instead of giving himself the space and time to accept the inevitability of Mitch.

“It’s nothing serious,” Mitch adds when Auston fails to reply. His hand reaches to where Auston’s fingernails threaten to draw blood and presses Auston’s fingertips against his own. There isn’t much space between them, Auston notices. If Mitch leans forward slightly more, and Auston rests his kneecap on Mitch’s thigh instead of just brushing against it, a passerby could mistake them for a couple.

Auston still hasn’t said a word, so he nods past the lump in his throat and waits for what Mitch has to say.

“It’s just something I thought you should know? Like, Stromer knows, and I spend a lot more time talking to you than him-” _dangerously real honestly,_ Auston thinks, “and I don’t want to feel like I’m hiding it from you. So, like, I’m bi.”

Auston blinks. 

Mitch doesn’t breathe in or out, doesn’t adjust his body even an inch.

“Thanks for letting me know. Your trust means a lot.”

Mitch’s face is blank, but his eyes are wide, eager, and he gives Auston a small nod, like he’s granting him the go-ahead. Like he expects Auston to go next, like they’re going to break the space between them and find their happily-ever-after with rainbow stick tape and performative NHL ally-ship. 

When it’s clear Auston is saying nothing more, Mitch gives a much sharper nod, like he’s confirming something to himself. 

His fingers brush against Auston’s as he pulls them away, but not even the fleeting touch of Mitch’s skin can distract Auston from the fact that for the first time in the several weeks of their friendship, he feels like he said the wrong thing. Or, maybe it’s not that he says the wrong thing, but that he doesn’t say the words both of them know are true and neither are willing to force from his mouth.

Either way, Mitch excuses himself to the guest bedroom, and when Auston wakes up the next morning, Mitch has left coffee in the pot and a note (an actual, honest-to-god note with pen and paper) excusing himself back to school and wishing him luck on the road. There’s a small heart in the corner, and Auston runs his finger over the edge and folds the paper carefully into an empty slot in his wallet.

 

* * *

Auston’s been a bit pre-occupied this season, he’ll admit it. Not in terms of his stats, which have been relatively consistent, but he’s allowed some of his friendships to take a back burner.

To be fair, it’s not like he’s completely abandoned his other friendships. When you spend most of your life in a locker room, on the ice, in a hotel room, or on a plane with the same group of people for the majority of the year, it’s essentially impossible to not become and remain close, even if you actively try to avoid every single person. 

Still, Auston knows how excited Willy was to return to Toronto and play once his contract negotiations settled, and he also knows he’s barely paid him any special attention beyond the initial honeymoon phase of having one of his best friends back. Especially because Willy’s been in a bit of a slump, he needs a friend more than ever, but Auston doesn’t take the time to process this fact until Willy makes a side comment while they’re sitting in a Tampa Bay hotel room, playing what was meant to be a light-hearted card game with Patty, Dylan, and Kappy. 

“What do you mean, ‘you wouldn’t know?’” Auston snaps. It isn’t a mean-spirited jab, and it’s well-deserved, but Mitch hasn’t texted him back in three hours, and he’s not in the fucking mood for dealing with Willy’s temper tantrum. 

“I’m just saying, ever since you got your mystery girlfriend or whatever, I haven’t seen you outside of, like, team obligations.” Willy is holding his hands in the air, proclaiming innocence and glancing at the others for support. Auston can’t look at their reactions, especially Dylan, who knows the only person new to Auston’s life since Willy’s return.

“Fuck off,” Auston forces out. It’s meant to be biting, to make Willy recoil and awkwardly force the group to move on, but the choked sob that rises to the surface severely undercuts the harsh tone Auston is aiming for. Willy does, in fact, startle, but because he’s never once seen Auston close to tears.

Auston doesn’t cry. He tears up at dogs dying or sad movies, because he’s not a soulless monster, but his body’s physical reaction to difficult situations or personal problems has never been to produce tears. It’s just not a thing he does, but he’s fresh off the tension that followed Mitch’s lackluster coming out, and he just wants Mitch to send him a heart emoji to reassure him that they’re fine, and he doesn’t realize he’s having trouble breathing until Patty is sitting him on the bed with an arm tucked over his shoulders and a hand patting his back. 

“Shit, sorry,” Auston chokes. He really regrets not wearing a shirt with sleeves, because he has nothing to bury his face in, to hide from the teammates who have never seen him this beaten down. He’s not sobbing, but his chest doesn’t feel quite right.

The feeling is comparable to a rubber band, pulling and stretching the edges of his heart and the tattered edges of his lungs, before it snaps with a sharp _crack._ Every snap of another breaking band emits another round of tears, and he’s pretty sure Dylan ushered Kappy and Willy out of the room, but he can’t remove his head from his knees long enough to check.

When Auston can feel his cheeks beginning to dry, he untucks himself from under Patty’s arm and shakily walks to the sink in the bathroom. He splashes the cold water against his cheeks, refusing to check in the mirror to see how many pairs of eyes are watching his total breakdown. 

When he starts to feel more human, he turns off the flow of water and buries his face in a hotel towel that buries his nose with the scent of soapy chemicals. The rough texture grounds him, and he takes yet another deep breath before he looks into the bedroom to see just Patty waiting patiently for him, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

Auston’s legs move slowly, like he’s walking against a current, but he eventually reaches the spot next to Patty. At first, it’s quiet, then—

“I’m gay.”

It’s not what he opened his mouth to say. It’s the opposite actually. He wasn’t going to outright lie, meant to claim he went through a weird sort-of-relationship then pseudo-breakup, but that he’ll learn to get over her.

Auston has never been above lying about a non-existent girlfriend. There have been multiple hickeys on his neck he’s attributed to a mysterious girl with a made-up name, but it’s fucking exhausting.

The suffocating pressure of using the wrong pronoun isn’t like the brief spurt of guilt from a lie. It’s an agonizing burn, a fire that slowly creeps through his veins while simultaneously freezing the blood that flows through them. Every casual ‘she’ he drops makes him want to claw at his tongue, like he can scratch off the lie that flows so easily from it, and he’s so tired of laying awake at night. His head keeps him up, constantly replaying a fantasy of telling teammates his relationship problems and saying the pronoun ‘he,’ just as honestly and easily as his teammates bitch and moan about their own problems without feeling like they’re losing a piece of themselves every time they say ‘she’. 

Auston is just exhausted. 

Patty is silent for a few moments, like he’s carefully selecting his next words. 

“First, and most importantly, thank you for telling me. I don’t think of you any differently.” Auston still can’t breathe, even though Patty is rubbing his back and not backing away in disgust or fear or all the things Auston has conditioned himself to believe would happen should any of his teammates stumble upon his secret. 

“Second, though,” Patty continues, “do you have a boyfriend? Relationship problems? Because you’ve been on edge, but you didn’t lose it until Willy mentioned a girlfriend.”

This, this moment right here, is the reason Patrick Marleau is the best dad in the world, and Auston hopes his kids appreciate him the way they should. If they don’t, Auston will send them daily reminders that they have the greatest dad in the universe, because Patty just gets it. 

“I,” Auston has to pause here, clear his throat. “All of the above? We weren’t anything official, but we call each other every night before bed, and we send stupid heart emojis and if we were-“ he has to pause again, stubs a bare toe into the ugly carpeting. “If we were a normal couple, we would’ve been together for probably at least a month now.”

Patty tenses up next to him, and Auston doesn’t even have time to question the problem before he’s told, “you aren’t abnormal just because you’re two guys.”

“If we were a straight couple, we would’ve been together by now,” Auston corrects, trying to move the conversation pass the lump of appreciation in his throat that Patty doesn’t consider him a freak. 

“Auston, how many people know you’re gay?”

Auston lets out an unintentional snort here, knowing Patty is about to turn all You Can Play on his response. “You.”

“And?”

“Just you.”

Patty gives up all pretenses of being chill now, throwing his other arm around Auston and pulling him into a hug. “That has to be lonely.”

“It wasn’t great,” Auston admits, and this moment is just fucking strange. At this time yesterday, he was sitting between Marns and Stromer on his couch, being demolished in Call of Duty and content to move forward with his life in a permanent in-between with Mitch and fake stories of fake girls shared with his teammates. 24 hours can do a lot, he’s learning. 

Once Patty’s arms have fallen back to his side, allowing Auston lean back a little and take a breath, Auston can see Patty opening his mouth to offer relationship advice.

“I appreciate any advice you want to give me, but I haven’t talked to Mitch yet. That’s- he’s the boy,” Auston says, and those words feel so inadequate to describe the way Mitch makes him feel. “I kind of fumbled his coming out, and I want to talk between us before I go anywhere else with this.”

There’s a gentle knocking at the door as Auston finishes speaking, and he and Patty are jerked out of their haze. Patty calls out, “one second!” and turns back to Auston. “You know, that was going to be my advice anyway. They grow up so fast.”

Auston laughs, stretches out his arms above his head to release the tension he’s built up through his body. He’s emotionally drained, and he knows there’s a long conversation with Mitch ahead, and at least three lectures from Patty about mental health, but the immediate concern is the three teammates probably standing anxiously outside the hotel door. 

“Yeah, you might as well retire now. My shit’s all together.” It’s a weak joke, but it relaxes the air before Auston grasps the cool metal of the door handle and swings it open to deal with the mess he’s created.

 

* * *

 

 

**Mitch Marner:** sorry for the silence I had a comms exam I put off studying for

**Mitch Marner:** is it too late to drop out

> ** Auston Matthews:** you don’t need a job you can just sell my authentic signed jerseys on  eBay

**Mitch Marner:** what’s $20 gonna buy me

> ** Auston Matthews:** ouch

**Mitch Marner:** you make it so easy

> ** Auston Matthews: **at least im not gonna fail comms 

**Mitch Marner** : I hate u 

**Mitch Marner:** win tonight

**Mitch Marner:** to hell with the tampa bay regime 

> ** Auston Matthews:** thought you hated me

**Mitch Marner:** hate tampa more

> ** Auston Matthews:** miss you marns

**Mitch Marner:** yeah whatever

**Mitch Marner:** its been a day

**Mitch Marner:** ur needy 

> ** Auston Matthews:** <3

**Mitch Marner:** <3 miss u too noob 

**Mitch Marner:** hey I know youre doing the hockey but do you think I can bake cookie dough in the microwave

 

* * *

 

Auston’s been home for two hours, and he’s still staring at his phone. The road trip had been a fucking disaster, to say the least.

They’d beaten the Lightning, then immediately turned around and lost to the fucking Panthers, which was just ridiculously on brand for the Leafs. Auston certainly hadn’t won any game for them, but he hadn’t necessarily hurt them either, which is a miracle considering the absolute emotional destruction that’s consuming his life. 

If things with Patty had been awkward, things with the three who don’t understand the cause of his random breakdown are even weirder. Auston had tried to give a clumsy apology to Willy, who waved it off with the slightly terrified air of someone dealing with a mental patient who might snap at any moment. Kappy had just been quiet and avoided him, but Auston doesn’t usually spend an enormous amount of alone time with him anyway. So, really, Dylan has been the big wreck.

It’s nice, in theory, how concerned he is. He’d pulled Auston aside shortly before they left for the arena and informed Auston, “If you need to talk about anything, I’m here, and I won’t judge.” He’d followed those words with an awkward clap on Auston’s back and a half-smile, and Auston wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. 

He had muttered an awkward, “Thanks, man,” hoping Dylan would leave it alone, but he didn’t. 

Dylan had proceeded to check on Auston at every possible moment they had alone together, to the point where it stopped being sweet and started being straight-up annoying. It was honestly like he was trying to get Auston angry again so that he’d snap, have another breakdown, and admit all his innermost thoughts and feelings to Dylan.

“Dude, listen, I appreciate your concern, but if I wanted to talk to you about it, I would,” Auston finally says when Dylan taps his shoulder in the Panther’s visiting dressing room. He drops the laces from between his fingers and stares directly into Dylan’s eyes with an anger he usually reserves for waved-off goals and players who fuck with his goalie. 

Dylan is taken aback. “I was just gonna ask if you had a phone charger, but noted.”

They don’t speak about anything but hockey for the rest of the trip. 

 

 

Now, Auston is lying on his sofa, wondering if he should’ve taken Dylan up on that offer. Dylan knows about Mitch and is clearly cool about it, but there’s a cognitive difference between a friend and a teammate. Mitch is an hour away at college, his life completely separate from Dylan’s and the world of the Maple Leafs. 

Auston, on the other hand, has a stall next to Dylan. They change next to each other on a daily basis, sit next to each other on planes, nap on each other’s shoulders, and spend a lot of spare time going out for lunches and dinners together. It’s definitely easier for Dylan to wrap his head around a long-distance friend’s sexuality than a teammate’s.

He’s spent the last two games after breaking down to Patty absolutely terrified that any second, it would suddenly register what it means to have a gay guy in the locker room. He’d adamantly refused to talk to anyone less than half-dressed and pointedly averted his eyes from anywhere where a dick might suddenly appear out in the open. 

Patty isn’t a homophobe, Auston _knows_ , but he doesn’t want the dynamic to feel different, or Patty to overcompensate; he just wants it to be the same. It had been, for the most part, but that might change if he adds to the list of people who know. 

All he wants to do is talk to Mitch, and maybe it’s because it’s nearly midnight, Auston has barely slept this weekend, and he’s on the verge of another round of tears, but he grabs his car keys from the coffee table and barely remembers to lock his front door as he types in driving directions to University of Guelph. 

* * *

 

“I don’t know why you bitch about driving home. You made it sound like a five hour drive, dude. I’ve had longer drives to the arena from my house than to your school,” Auston says into the phone as soon as Mitch has mumbled out a sleepy “‘Lo?” on the other end. 

Auston’s words are definitely jumbled and spoken way too fast, especially for a 1:30 AM Mitch who has just been woken up, but he gets the memo.

“You… school?” Mitch’s two brain cells are significantly less eloquent at this time of night, and his raspy and exhausted slurring makes Auston’s heart flip in a way he did not prepare himself for.

“Yeah. I think I parked illegally. Anyway, I’m standing in front of a big glass building. Can you come get me? I’m lost and don’t know where you live.”

“Jesus fucking christ Auston.” Mitch is sounding much more alert now. “I’ll be there in ten. Don’t move.”

Auston doesn’t have time to reply before Mitch hangs up the phone. He plops down on a set of stairs and watches the leafs on the trees rustle in the chilly wind, and he wraps his arms around his knees to fight off some of the remaining bite left from winter and the moon in the sky. He really regrets not grabbing a jacket, but that’s what impulsive decisions do to you. 

“Auston, what the fuck?” Mitch asks, materializing out of nowhere. 

He clearly hasn’t put much thought into his clothes, Auston notes. Mitch dons a pair of plaid pajama pants, a wrinkled t-shirt that is definitely inside out, and has shoved his feet into a pair of slides with a sock only decorating one foot. He’s clutching his phone in one hand and a balled-up blue sweatshirt in the other. His hair sticks up on one side from where it’s clearly been pressed against a pillow, and Auston feels his heart physically grow ten sizes at how much fondness overtakes his heart.

“Do you think Dylan would be cool if I came out to him?” he asks, resisting the temptation to stand up and play with Mitch’s hair. Mitch blinks.

“Am I having a dream right now, or did you actually drive all the way to my school in the middle of the night for a question you could have texted me?” The words are judgmental but his tone is kind, soft, clearly understanding that Auston is not exactly in a functioning state of mind. Mitch, clearly resigning himself to this fate, settles next to Auston on the stairway. 

“I just-,” Auston’s voice breaks here, and he has to clear his throat before he lets himself finish. “I was just thinking, and then I was here.”

Mitch wraps an arm around Auston’s shoulders, rubbing the bare skin where it has formed goosebumps against the night breeze. “Dylan would be very cool if you came out to him. Also, I guess you just came out to me, so congrats.” 

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Auston admits. He adjusts himself in order to press into Mitch’s side more. “Like, I’ve known I was gay since I was seventeen, and suddenly I tell a single person, and now I’m having a total crisis where I just feel like I have to tell everyone.”

Mitch is quiet again, pressing a thumb into the crevice of Auston’s shoulder before he responds. “There is a lot to unpack there.” 

Auston can’t help but to laugh, knowing exactly what Mitch is thinking. “It’s been lonely and shit keeping it quiet, but I always just figured that being gay and being in the NHL wasn’t going to be like, a thing I would do. I kind of didn’t expect to be having this crisis.”

“Matts,” Mitch says, a new edge to his voice conveyed through just that one nickname. His arm drops, and Auston doesn’t understand why until the hoodie is pressed into his arms. “You’re shaking,” Mitch explains, and Auston throws on the hoodie (ironically enough, the one Mitch had stolen from Auston’s collection), then reaches down and grabs Mitch’s hand. It feels safe, like they’re protected by an unbreakable bubble in the night air. Plus, Mitch’s touch is the only thing keeping the tears as pinpricks in Auston’s eyes instead of stains that track his cheeks.

“Anyway,” Mitch says, trying not to stare too obviously at where the calluses in Auston’s palm press against his own. “No offense, but I think expecting yourself to just never be out was unrealistic. Obviously, there have statistically been gay guys in the NHL before, but they also weren’t surrounded by a context that, like, told them that was okay and embraced same-sex marriage and all this shit. It’s gonna be harder to see a bunch of other people getting to be themselves and not having the same chance.”

The only sound around them is the wind rustling the trees as Auston processes the words. “You’re really smart sometimes.”

“Okay, yeah, I’m getting a degree while you hit pucks with a stick for a living, and somehow I’m expected to be the dumb one.” Auston isn’t looking at his face while Mitch says it, but he knows it’s filled with a goofy smile that would make Auston smile back twice as hard. 

“Hey, you wanna get food or something?” Mitch asks when it’s clear Auston isn’t going to send a chirp back his way. 

“I have practice tomorrow. It’s later in the day, but I should probably drive back and get some sleep.” The thought is nauseating, but he’s not quite at a level of self-hatred that would allow himself to miss practice and face Babcock’s wrath. 

Mitch makes a noise of protest and squeezes Auston’s hand, tightly cementing their fingers together. His tone is light but determined when he says, “Dude, you just drove all the way to my school in the middle of the night because of how shitty you were feeling. I’m not letting you drive back to Toronto by yourself like this. I don’t want to get blamed for your death. I’d be run out of Canada. I’ll drive you back.”

“You’ll— what? No, you have an 8 AM on Fridays, and no way will you wake up for it if you drive to the city and back,” Auston protests. The last thing he needs is Mitch failing classes on his behalf, and he also tries not to dwell on the fact that he has Mitch’s schedule memorized. 

Mitch’s smile is soft when he replies. “I’ll be honest, my roommate is in that class, and he’s been writing my name down for attendance for the majority of the semester. I would be skipping anyway. Who makes a class at fucking 8 AM?”

“You signed up for it,” Auston points out. The banter between the two of them is familiar, more in line with the kind of conversation they have when Auston begs off a team dinner and listens to Mitch complain about the person who invented math for half an hour. 

He takes his free hand and places it on top of Mitch’s, trapping Mitch’s hand in a sandwich of Auston. He can hear Mitch’s breath hitch at the increased contact. “You’re also not driving back to school tonight. You’ll die behind the wheel from exhaustion, and Dylan would never forgive me.”

“So you can’t drive because I don’t want to be hunted down by Leafs fans, and I can’t drive because you think I’m too tired, but you also need to be back in Toronto,” Mitch teases. He’s staring straight ahead at the empty campus in front of them and trying to hide a fond smile. “Are we walking back?”

“I never said you couldn’t drive there. Just… stay at my place tonight?” And it’s not like Auston doesn’t have a guest bedroom for when his family visits, where Mitch could theoretically sleep like he did only a few nights ago, but he also has a strong feeling that neither of them want Mitch that far away tonight. 

“Yeah, okay,” Mitch says. They collect themselves for a few moments longer until Mitch pushes off the steps, pulling Auston up firmly with him. They don’t speak, but there’s no space between their fingers where light could shine through, and if Auston is leaning his head onto Mitch’s as he directs him to where his car miraculously has no ticket, Mitch doesn’t protest. 

 

 

The bedroom is dark and Mitch is tucked safely on the opposite side of the bed from Auston, who really regrets buying a king-sized mattress. There hasn’t been a word between them besides driving instructions, and he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“You know we have to talk in the morning, right?” There it is. 

“Yeah, let’s be functioning adults later,” Auston agrees. There’s a lot to talk about, a lot that has changed between them in a span of a few hours.

“Functioning and adults are words I wouldn’t use to describe either of us.”

Auston rolls over from his back onto the side, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the outline of Mitch. He can see Mitch’s hand waiting in the middle of the bed, not quite an invitation but leaving the window of possibility open. 

Auston touches his fingers to the top of Mitch’s hand and watches him shiver at the touch. He enjoys the sight before he mutters, “Night, Mitchy.”

“Night, Matts.”

They don’t say anything else before they fall asleep, but their hands don’t move from the middle of the bed, and Auston counts that as a significant win.

 

* * *

 

Auston has never believed in any religion, and he thinks that’s why he’s being punished when he wakes up to the sound of an alarm at 7 AM. He lets out a loud moan, rolls over to turn it off, and then jerks awake when he hits a body in his warpath to eliminate the evil. 

“Sorry, sorry, go back to bed. I forgot to turn off the alarms for class,” a voice whispers. 

“God?” Auston mumbles, because that’s all his sleep-deprived brain can create to explain the second person. The voice laughs, which, rude, and fingers are brushed through Auston’s hair. 

“Sure, Aus. Go back to sleep.”

Auston complies, because who is he to disagree with God’s will?

 

 

He fully wakes up three hours later when he hears two voices floating from his living room through his wide-open bedroom door. He takes a moment to wipe the sleep from the corner of his eyes and shake feeling back into his muscles before he remembers that, oh, he drove to Mitch’s fucking school, dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night, talked some nonsense at him, and made him miss his class in order to drive Auston back to Toronto. 

Auston usually prides himself on being composed. He doesn’t lose his shit often, and the one or two times he’s snapped at the media, it’s been as polite as a snarky comeback can be. He doesn’t get into fights, verbal or physical, he doesn’t cry in front of teammates, and he certainly doesn’t make impulsive decisions. 

All that composure just fucking crawled down the drain and died a slow and painful death recently, and somehow it’s led to Mitch talking with… Dylan? In Auston’s living room?

Auston forces himself from the warm safety of his comforter covers and grins at the sight of Mitch’s single sock lying near the foot of the bed before he slips out the door to see what kind of chaos is being created.

He’s met with the sight of Dylan, cross-armed and stoic, staring Mitch down with an unwavering determination. Dylan has a good three or four inches on Mitch, so he should be intimidating, but from what Auston can see, Mitch is glaring back even more intensely. 

“Uh?” Auston says to break the stare-down. Dylan and Mitch both drop their looks to face Auston, and Dylan walks over and wraps Auston in a hug that leaves Auston awkwardly patting Dylan’s side.

“You good, dude?” Auston asks. 

“I woke up this morning to texts from Mitch between 1:30 AM and 3:30 AM that went from ‘Auston’s at my school. Did something happen? Is he okay?’ to ‘I’m in Toronto’ and ‘I’m sleeping at Auston’s. Everything’s fine.’” Dylan’s face gets progressively pinker as he speaks. He’s waving his phone in the air, as if that will magically osmosis the messages to Auston’s brain. “And Mitch won’t tell me shit about what happened and keeps trying to make me leave.” 

“Everything is fine. I just had a minor issue, but I’m good. Go home, Stromer,” Auston says. He can see Mitch settling onto the couch and hugging a pillow against his chest, which is very cute, and there’s still a long conversation to be had between them that he knows will probably be messy. Considering Auston’s newfound fragility these past few days, he might even cry.

“A minor issue is resolved by staying up too late eating ice cream and like, maybe having a phone call about your issues. It’s not resolved by having a breakdown in Tampa, not talking to anyone for the whole trip, and driving to someone’s college in the middle of the night to be sad there. Dude, I’m just worried. Bell let’s talk and all that stuff.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Auston sees Mitch snort when Dylan starts citing the mental health initiative, and Auston allows the corner of his mouth to quirk up enough for Marns to notice without seeming like he’s laughing at Dylan’s genuine concern.

“Mitch and I need to talk about something first. You’re a good friend, and I’ll talk to you, but not right now.”

Dylan deflates slightly, leaning against the back of the couch and sighing. When he looks back up, Auston notices the bags under his eyes and the crinkle between his eyebrows that haven’t been comforted by Auston’s promise.

“I’m picking you up for lunch at one, and we’ll talk before practice,” Dylan says, pointing to Auston, then redirecting to Mitch. “And since you’re here already, you’re coming to the game tomorrow night.”

Auston simply nods while Mitch throws a hand over his forehead in a typical dramatic flair. “Oh no, I have to watch a Leafs game for free, how will I go on?”

Mitch is stupid and annoying, Dylan informs the room, and then gives goodbye hugs before he heads out the door with one last lingering glance of worry. 

“I need coffee for this conversation,” Auston informs Mitch, turning on his heel to walk into the kitchen. Mitch drops the pillow from his lap and follows. He _knows_ Mitch wants to make a snide comment, because he’s discussed in great length how much he hates the ‘don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee’ people, but he’s generously staying silent and even says thanks when Auston pours him a mug as well. 

“Okay, so stop me if I’ve read all of this very wrong,” Mitch starts, pressing his hands around the body of the mug and refusing to make eye contact, “but there’s, like, a thing here, yeah?”

Auston stares intently at the fingers Mitch has wrapped around the mug and barely nods. 

“I don’t really think it’s fair of me to ask you to go back into the closet for this relationship,” Auston admits, voicing for the first time the nerves that have been chewing at him. Approximately zero of their interactions could be classified as platonic, but there’s a massive difference between hardcore flirting and a full-time relationship that can’t leave the four walls of Auston’s condo. 

“I don’t think it’s fair of you to decide that for me,” Mitch says, voice calm but firm. Auston winces, because Mitch is right, as usual. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Mitch barrels on. “Also, you’ve come out to someone, and you were talking about coming out to Dylan, and that means you’re about ten times less repressed than when I first met you.”

Again, he’s dead-on, and his tone is joking, but his words mean business. 

“This relationship means something to me,” Auston tries to explain, and cringes at his own inability to be articulate. “Shit, I mean obviously. I mean, I want this to be serious, and I could see us lasting. That’s kind of big, and I don’t want that to not work because we got the timing wrong, you know?” 

Mitch reaches for the bowl on Auston’s table and dumps a two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his mug. Auston doesn’t even admonish the way Mitch taps the spoon against the rim of the mug to shake off the excess liquid, which just really proves how gone for him Auston is. 

“I spend most of my free time talking to you in some form. You call me every single night before bed, and you text me ‘good morning’ when you wake up first. We spend a stupid amount of time flirting, and I’ve tried to come up with excuses to drive into the city several times just so I could see you. You drove to my school in the middle of the night because you were sad and wanted to see me, and then we fell asleep basically holding hands. I don’t think I can keep doing this, knowing it’s not a relationship.” Mitch’s voice cracks near the end, demarcated with desperation as he unwittingly reaches out to grab Auston’s hand. He recoils when he realizes where his hands are headed, which stings worse than a slapshot to the ankle and pushes Auston to say his next few words.

“I can’t promise I’ll become the poster boy for gay rights in the NHL.” A thousand butterflies have been released, resting gracefully on his heart, then flutter away when he continues, “but I want to be like, boyfriends or dating or whatever.”

“Romantic. A real Romeo and Juliet confession of affection, there,” Mitch scoffs, and it’s the most Marns response to being asked out that Auston could possibly imagine.

“I’ll make you pancakes while we figure this out,” Auston offers. “That’s romantic as hell.”

Mitch squints suspiciously. “Do you have chocolate chips?”

“I only have blueberries, but there should be chocolate sauce somewhere,” Auston counters. 

“Deal.”

 

Mitch is sitting on the kitchen island, laughing at Auston’s ridiculous apron and the way he dances to the terrible country music Mitch is playing from his phone, and it’s the kind of rom-com shit you see in movies where you watch the characters finally get their shit together and just stay in the light-hearted, overbearing state of joy. 

There’s chocolate smeared on the corner of Mitch’s mouth, and Auston doesn’t care that he’s using the oldest move in the book when he sees the way Mitch’s eyes take him in, like he can’t believe this five-headed American wants him back. He licks his thumb and wipes away the stain from Mitch’s mouth, then leans in to press his lips against Mitch.

Auston’s kissed people before, obviously, starting with awkward girls at parties that became shadowy boys as he aged, always a needy, desperate kiss with a purpose and end goal. He’s never kissed someone without an intent of going further, never traced his tongue in their mouth just to let him know he was there, and never got to hear the labored breathing and hold the soft hand of Mitch Marner as they kiss on his kitchen counter.

It’s not quite a rom-com, because the pancake Auston has abandoned in the pan starts to smoke slightly, which leaves the air slightly bitter and burnt, and Mitch almost slips off the counter, and Auston accidentally bites down on Mitch’s lip too hard and draws blood, but they have plenty of time to recreate the Notebook, so for now, Auston accepts this messy version of perfect. 

 

* * *

 

They don’t quite finish talking about all the important things before Auston has to slip on athletic clothes and reassure Dylan that he’s ready to head out, but Mitch promises he’ll stay until Auston drives him back to school on Sunday, and they’re both confident they can fit in enough serious talk between makeout sessions that honestly leave Auston dizzy with affection. 

“I’m not sure I want to talk about this in a public restaurant,” Auston informs Dylan as he slips into the passenger seat. It’s not easy to forget that they live in Toronto, home of people who follow the Leafs with a fanatic desperation and would hang on to every word they overheard. Dylan nods, instantly understanding. 

He doesn’t turn down the music or even say a word in reply, just drives to a Starbucks near Auston’s condo and orders them each a coffee that Auston probably won’t touch. 

“I have a guess as to what’s going on, but I don’t want to assume,” Dylan says, once the car is parked in a spot at the edge of the lot and his EDM is at the lowest volume. 

“I mean, I’m not exactly subtle around him.” Auston doesn’t want to make this a thing, doesn’t want to let tears prick at his eyes and force a serious talk. He just wants to hang out with Dylan like normal and then go to practice so he can get home and make sure Mitch wears his jersey to the game tonight. He wants it to be as normal and casual as when Dylan started dating his girlfriend and Auston had chirped that she was too pretty for him and moved on.

“I cannot believe you’re dating Mitch,” Dylan laughs, not in a mean way, but in absolute disbelief. “He’s so outgoing, and you’re the grumpiest person ever.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Auston protests, which probably doesn’t help his case. “I’m a ball of fucking sunshine.” 

“Whatever Matts. Just like, I’ve got your back, yeah?” It’s the closest to sentimental Stromer allows himself to get around Auston in the light of sobriety and day, and they’re both trying to ignore how weird it is. “Whether you do or don’t want to tell people. I’ll beat up anyone who has a problem with it.”

It’s supposed to be a nice offer, but the thought of Dylan fighting is too funny to not mock at least a little. “You’d lose, but I appreciate it, dude. I’m gonna tell Patty, but we’re going to hold off on family for a little bit and definitely hold out on teammates.”

“Understood,” Dylan says, then offers him a fist bump. Auston bumps back, confused, then laughs when Dylan says, “neither of you are exactly a catch, but Mitch is one of the greatest people alive, and you’re fucking lucky, so congrats.” 

“I’m telling Mitch you were nice to him.”

“Don’t you dare. I have an image to maintain.”

It’s Auston’s first casual coming out, and it’s not quite gay jokes and rainbow flags, but it helps to know that he wasn’t doomed to a fate of constant tears and anxiety. He could just be, and some people could just know, and it didn’t always have to be a thing with a capital T. 

Practice that day is freeing, even if Babcock is still on edge from their most recent loss, and Auston can’t stop smiling when he pulls Patty aside and lets him know that Auston has someone to come home to. 

 

* * *

**mitchy:** get up from the ice oh my god are you good

**mitchy:** aus im worried be oKay

**mitchy:** oh good you got up to the bench

**mitchy:** okay you’re back on the ice

**mitchy:** I can’t believe you just fucking scored

**mitchy:** you’re so petty 

**mitchy:** I want to finish watching this game but there’s a dog visiting the hall don’t score while im gone

**mitchy:** of course you fucking scored 

**mitchy:** can’t score when I visit for a game but score in the five minutes I go to pet a dog fuck you too 

**mitchy:** yay you won <3

> ** matts: **pet more dogs during my games I need all the goals I can get

**mitchy:** im not gonna watch your games anymore if you’re just going to be mean to me

> ** matts: **you free?
> 
> ** matts:** dylans probably going to annoy us for a little while but I’ll kick him out 

**mitchy:** yeah facetime whenever

 

 

> ** matts:** sorry Dylan wouldn’t leave us alone 

**mitchy:** thats okay

**mitchy:** just like hearing your voice

**mitchy:** that was cheesy don’t answer 

**mitchy:** ill never talk to you again if you mention it

> ** matts:** you’re stupid 
> 
> ** matts: **see you tomorrow 
> 
> ** matts:** <3 goodnight

**mitchy:** <3 night

 

* * *

 

It was innocuous enough, Auston thought, just a casual outing with Dylan and Mitch as had become the norm in the last month. 

Mitch would drive up to Toronto after his 8 AM that Auston stubbornly insisted he attend. If Auston had a free day, he’d drive up the night before and cram into Mitch’s tiny bed, where they’d have to ignore Mitch’s roommate, who was a mouth-breather but otherwise very nice (the fact that he knew negative four things about hockey was a bonus, plus he’d always clear out for at least an hour if he knew Auston was coming). Dylan would tag along for most of the weekends Mitch visited, sometimes with his girlfriend for a double date she was sworn to secrecy about, and it was good. They’d probably grown a bit too comfortable in this routine. 

They’d just been in the back of an Uber, on route to some Italian restaurant Willy had recommended, and Auston kept his arm around Mitch and had slipped in a quick kiss when Dylan was distracted by a cute baby in the next car over.

Suffice it to say, he had apparently learned nothing about privacy from the Ottawa Senators incident, because Dylan is wrapped around Auston on the white tile floor of a hotel bathroom as he heaves into a toilet, the screenshots from the video that are splashed over every social media website still open on his phone. 

“Just breathe, just focus on breathing,” Dylan’s saying, awkwardly patting Auston’s back in an attempt to be supportive, and it feels like he’s suffocating even more. He wants Mitch’s hand pressed against the small of his back, and he wants to hear whatever stupid topic Mitch would chatter on about to distract Auston until he can remember that the world is still turning and he still has Mitch on his side.

“Can you call Mitch?” Auston manages between dry heaves. He has yet to eat breakfast, as this was the big start to his day, so nothing is coming up, which is honestly more painful. Dylan immediately complies, and the phone barely has time to ring before Mitch picks up. 

“Are you with Auston? Did he see? Is he okay?” A frantic voice on the other end asks.

“Mitch,” Auston says, before having to pause to let out an especially lurching dry heave. Dylan looks torn between hugging Auston like there’s no tomorrow and fleeing to let Mitch deal with the aftermath. 

“Matts,” Mitch said, his voice soft, losing the edge that had cut through Auston’s heart like a skate blade. “You’re going to be fine. Want me to talk to you?”

Auston can’t get out the words to affirm, but Dylan translates the nod to Mitch, who immediately started talking about the really cute dog he’s seen every day outside his window that is somehow never there when Mitch ran out to pet it, and how it knows really cool tricks, and Auston is starting to suspect it’s all made up when Mitch starts saying the dog is, “bright purple, Matts, I swear,” but he’s able to remove his head from the toilet seat and lay it in Dylan’s lap instead, which he counts as a big win. 

“Marns, you literally never stop talking, and this was really the best story you could come up with?” Dylan interrupts when Mitch claims the dog howls in tune to Baby by Justin Bieber. Auston smiles faintly from the floor and listens as Mitch and Dylan bicker back and forth until he feels calm enough to jump in. 

“Hey, can I talk to Mitch alone?” he asks Dylan, lightly touching his elbow to grab Dylan’s attention. He startles at Auston’s sudden emergence back into the world of the living but carefully lifts himself from the bathroom tile. He’s heading to the door but hesitates, turning back to Auston. 

“I’m probably going to knock on Patty’s door. What do you want me to tell him?” And it’s so respectful, and Auston has never been more grateful to have Dylan as a friend, even if he has to call Mitch to deal with Auston’s crises since he doesn’t touch emotions with a 20 foot pole. 

“You can say I’m a little freaked, but that I’ll be fine. I’ll head over in a little,” he says, smiling back at Dylan’s gentle nod before he slips out the door. Auston hasn’t looked at any of his notifications yet, of which he’s sure there are many, but he can deal with one problem at a time. 

“Matts? Can you talk me through your head right now?”

“I’m sorry,” Auston blurts out, unable to stop the rush of guilt. “This is a lot to put on you, and now your face is all over social media.”

Mitch is uncharacteristically silent for a moment, then—

“Auston Matthews, are you actually fucking concerned about me right now?”

“I mean, I’m shitting myself over the media and team reactions, but like, I’m not the only person in that video. Your face is going to be shoved everywhere, and people will talk about your time in the O, and you didn’t ask for any of that.” 

Auston can’t stand not looking at Mitch while they talk about this, so he switches the call to a FaceTime request that Mitch immediately answers with a dopey smile that’s hidden behind a furrowed brow of disbelief. 

“I literally don’t care at all who knows that I exist and date you. I’m out, and it’s not like my world centers around whether people pull up stats from the O. They already ran their gossip mill when I quit, and I promise I’m mentally stable now. I’m far more worried that you just got outed,” Mitch says, clearly about to work himself into a rant that Auston is powerless to stop. “This just violated your privacy on a thousand different levels, and I need you to focus on yourself right now, because I am _fine,_ and I wouldn’t lie to you right now.”

“Oh my god, my family is going to see this,” Auston says, the realization weighing on him at once. He isn’t concerned about their acceptance, necessarily, but the thought that they’ll find out from a stupid fucking video instead of Auston himself makes him feel sick all over again. 

“Call your mom. She might not have seen it yet. Talk this out with them, and then call me back. I’m sure your management has a lot to say about what your next steps are, and you should talk through what you actually want before you let them pressure you into anything.”

“That sounds,” Auston lets out a breath, raps his knuckles against the floor, “very reasonable. You’re smart.”

“Three years of higher education instead of constant concussion protocol will do that for you,” Mitch says cheerfully, though his eyes are still slanted with concern. “Today is going to suck, and you’re either going to be coming out or denying who you are a lot of times, so just remember to take care of yourself, alright? I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

Auston can’t fathom a world where Mitch isn’t around to talk him through the emotional constipation that has permeated his entire life, and he aches to hold his hand and be able to choose when to tell his mom about this boy that he cares about so much, as Mitch beams at his side and saves all Auston’s compliments to chirp on him later, but this is the card he’s been dealt, and he has to accept that and type in his mom’s number.

 

In the end, it’s all fine. 

Auston’s mom has clearly been waiting for his call, and the empathy from her that is far more worried about her son than his sexuality nearly brings Auston back to the toilet bowl. He tells her about Mitch, tells her he’s known for a while that he’s gay, and then she’s crying about the things he suffered in his own head for so many years while she was a country away. 

“I want to meet him, okay? He sounds very nice,” she says when her tears have dried and Auston has wiped away some of his own. The familiarity of her voice, the accent that everyone claims she has but Auston has always just known as the sound of his mom, the softness when she tells Auston that she just wants him to be happy— his head has felt like it was floating miles above Earth the last few months, just absolutely lost in a confused haze as his life turned in ways he never expected, but his mom always knows how to shatter the divide and make him feel like he’s home, even in a hotel room in New York as his life crumbles outside the bathroom door.

 

“Good talk?” Mitch asks when he sees the soft smile on Auston’s face and the red rims around his eyes. Auston nods and leans his back against the cabinets behind him.

“I don’t think I can really deny it to the team,” Auston says, “but the media is getting a firm ‘no comment,’ and I’ll sic Dylan on them if they keep asking.”

“Can the Leafs ban media from asking about it?” Mitch questions, to which Auston shrugs because he never paid enough attention in media training. 

“That’s what Dylan is for.”

“He’s going to be a terrible attack dog,” Mitch informs him, and then they compare who in the NHL would be the best guard dog, because Mitch’s mind just works that way and Auston loves to indulge him. 

 

 

Patty and Dylan fret over him in the awkward way of two people who have no understanding of what he’s going through, but care very deeply, and it’s weird until they finally accept he’s fine. 

“I mean, I haven’t looked at any messages. I’ve only used my phone to talk to my mom and Mitch, so like, I don’t know how anyone else is reacting. If the team is going to be weird and shitty, that’ll suck, but I have you two and my family, and a contract that means I’ll be here for five years whether they like it or not.”

Patty shakes his head, clutches his hand to his heart in faux shock, but looks genuinely proud when he declares, “I’m not even needed anymore. You’re too mature.”

Dylan doesn’t drop the tension from his shoulders, but he finally settles onto one of the beds and asks who wants to play a round of cards before they head to the arena, and Auston indulges in the normalcy before he has to face the rest of the team.

 

 

The rest of the team avoids eye contact as Auston climbs on the bus that takes them to the arena, and no one dares to speak until Willy just sighs from the row behind Auston and asks, “You wanna talk about it, dude?”

“You saw the video. It’s… whatever.”

“I’m telling Marns you called him ‘whatever.’” Dylan is clearly trying to make it as obvious as possible to the rest of the team without forcing Auston to make it a whole thing, and maybe Auston will think twice before he leaves a sarcastic comment on Dylan’s next brand deal on Instagram. He’ll still post the chirp, probably, but he’ll consider being kind. 

“That’s homophobic.” Out of the corner of his eye, Auston can see the bus physically tense up, like they can’t hear the obvious sarcasm in his words, which is why Dylan is the only straight guy he trusts. 

“Just because you don’t like it doesn’t make it homophobic. That will never work on me,” Dylan says, rolling his eyes and slapping Auston’s shoulder half-heartedly. 

The mood on the bus shifts once Auston has taken his usual seat and joked with Stromer like it’s any other morning. He doesn’t want this to become an ordeal where guys feel obligated to give some emotional speech about how they accept Auston. He just wants to get to the rink, play hockey, and throw stick tape across the room at whoever has the aux and inevitably plays some garbage. 

And, at least for today, in the throes of not wanting to push where they don’t belong, his teammates grant him that reprieve. 

Babs still pulls him aside, and it’s an awkward conversation, but their coach has always been more progressive about mental health than most in the professional sports world, and he’s mostly concerned about Auston’s emotional wellbeing rather than his relationship status. 

“This is obviously something you’ll have to contact management about after the morning skate, but I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

They’re standing in a hallway just outside the locker room, and all the guys who pass avoid making eye contact. 

“This was obviously a very difficult morning, but I’ve talked to my family and Mitch, and I’m going to be fine,” Auston says. It’s almost unbearably kind, the way Babcock tells him they’ve assigned other players to the post-practice interviews and that they’re going to try and control the questions allowed, and he promises he’ll be on the call and on Auston’s side for whatever move Leafs PR and Auston choose to make. 

 

 

While the rest of the team heads back to the hotel to complete their pre-game rituals, Auston sits in a room in Madison Square Garden in a conference call that ultimately results in the PR team being overwhelmingly understanding when Auston says he doesn’t want to officially come out or make a statement to the contrary; he just wants the story to die. 

Because the story involves Auston’s personal life rather than a team issue and the management is clearly not trying to cross any homophobic boundaries, Auston is released with strict instructions to wave off any questions about the video that slip through the cracks, and just like that, he’s back in the hotel room where he was convinced earlier this morning that his world was tumbling around him. 

It’s quiet, because Dylan’s already drifted to sleep before Auston return, and Auston can feel the weight of the past several hours and morning skate pushing his eyes shut. He texts Mitch an abbreviated update and wakes up before game time to several red hearts, exclamation points, and an ice cream emoji (he can’t figure that one out) along with a “proud of you, matts, always.”

He still has to take a few deep breathes a few times before he can get himself to leave his bed’s safety, but he lets Mitch’s words ground him and carry him back to the locker room full of teammates who are trying their best to cultivate this new brand of normal.

 

* * *

 

**POST-GAME INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT, MARCH 31ST.**

**LEAFS @ RANGERS | TOR: 7, NYR: 1**

**[TSN Reporter]:** Do you have any comment on the video posted today?

**[Auston Matthews]:** Unless the video was out there blocking shots on net with Freddie, I don’t really see how it’s relevant.

 

**[ESPN Reporter]:** Do you have any comment on the video of Auston posted this morning?

**[William Nylander]:** Do you get paid to write about hockey or our personal lives?

**[ESPN Reporter]:** Is that a ‘no comment’?

**[William Nylander]:** I’ll answer if I get to invade all your friends’ privacy, too. Since, apparently, we’re not being paid to talk about hockey anymore. 

 

**[LNN Reporter]:** Do you have any comment on the video posted this morning of Auston?

**[Dylan Strome]:** We don’t talk to TMZ. 

 

**[SN Reporter]:** Coach, any comment on the video of Auston from this morning?

**[Mike Babcock]** : Any comment on his hat trick?

 

* * *

 

Mitch is unbearably excited to meet Ema Matthews, is practically buzzing out of his skin at the prospect of sitting in the stands at a game with her and cheering every time Auston so much as touches the puck. 

Ema, naturally, takes to Mitch instantly, because he is literally just a giant sponge that soaks up attention and love. Auston’s dad, a man of a quieter variety than Ema, isn’t really sure what to do with or make of Mitch, but they have common ground with golf and absolutely horrific senses of dad-joke humor, and Auston watches his dad quickly grow to love Mitch, too. 

They watch with fond amusement at dinner when Mitch whines that Auston never scores a goal with Mitch in attendance, and his mom definitely texts his sisters a lengthy update when Auston responds by tucking a strand of hair away from Mitch’s earnest eyes and promising tonight would be different.

He can’t see exactly where his family is sitting from his position on the ice, but when he scores a goal, he sends a heart up to their side of the arena. 

It ends up on that week’s NHL Top 5 Celly’s, and he’s relentlessly chirped in the team group chat, but Dylan and Auston make no less than 15 memes from Mitch’s bright red face that the camera caught, so it’s worth the team-imposed fines.

 

* * *

 

Mitch fits into the team, probably almost a little too well, and Auston tries not to be jealous when he and Zach compare college experiences and focuses on making plans with Patty for him and Mitch to come over for dinner one night. 

It should be weird, watching Mitch zoom around the bar and make absolutely every single Toronto Maple Leaf fall in love with him, but Auston can’t imagine anything he wants more in the world than Mitch cooing over Naz’s album of cat picture until Auston is fed up with having Mitch so far away, slips a hand under his shirt, and whines for him to come home. 

It feels like family, and it’s the same introduction many of his teammate’s girlfriends have had to the team, and Auston wants to cry when everyone is normal and Kappy makes an appropriate gay joke that leaves the table in stitches. 

It’s not sunshine and rainbows, and he’s tried to to crack under the pressure he feels to compensate for his sexuality by upping his point total even though he knows he shouldn’t think that way. Sometimes Auston gets in a mood because Mitch is living in a totally different world and their schedules are difficult to line up, and he isolates himself in his empty condo until Patty yells at him for feeling sorry for himself and drags him out. Auston has to restrict the comments on his Instagram posts to filter out the homophobic trolls, and Dylan once has to quickly change the radio station when two sports commentators start discourse on whether the Leafs are losing games because their locker room dynamic is affected by a gay teammate. 

All of that is kind of shitty, but Mitch’s pinky is loosely wrapped around his, and he’s already booked the flights for Mitch to come to Arizona in July and for Auston to visit Toronto and compete in the Strome summer street hockey tournament, and Auston knows he’s going to be just fine.

 

* * *

Auston’s fingers linger over the post button. It isn’t a reveal, really, because that was stolen away from him the minute that video had been posted. This picture is still the first time he’s admitting, with full consent, that he’s not straight, breaking his personal promise to himself.

The caption isn’t explicit in the admission, isn’t decorated with pride flags emojis and glitter, but it’s still Mitch wearing his jersey, hugging the waist of a sweaty Auston who looks exhausted but is staring at Mitch like he’s just hung the stars in the sky (in actuality, Mitch had just swallowed the remains of a hot dog and burped in Auston’s ear, and Auston had swatted his arm and fell a little more in love). It was a dumb photo with a dumb caption, one that most people wouldn’t pause to post, but still—

It feels big. Auston is betraying the boy crying in a scratchy hotel towel, who thought that pride in his sexuality was the ultimate crime, who fully convinced himself the only way he could ever play hockey was with a promise that destroyed his own chance at personal fulfillment. He’d spent a lot of time in the back of sweaty clubs, hidden under shadows, telling himself this was about career protection instead of deep-set shame. 

Auston is settling into his role slightly better, but he knows he’ll still feel gut-wrenching anxiety when he’s bombarded with questions about being the first openly gay NHL player, knows he’ll sometimes subconsciously pull the hat over his face in public so no one will recognize Auston Matthews holding a boy’s hand. He has time left in his journey, but he also has a cute boy who is leaning on his shoulder and whining for Auston to hurry up so they can play Call of Duty, and he knows he’ll eventually be alright.

He hits post, turns off his phone, and kisses Mitch to the disgusted chirping of Dylan and Freddie over the headsets.

 

_@auston_matthews: “Mitchy finally traded in the ugly strome jersey for the 34.”_

 

**@dylstrome19:** GTA loyalty means nothing to some people anymore

**@dylstrome19:** I introduced you guys and you still do me like this I’m asking for a fucking trade

> **@marner_93** : do I know you ? 

**@williamnylander:** is this srsly your coming out caption this is disgustingly on brand

**@barzal97:** this is the weirdest crossover episode of my hockey worlds 

**@mcdavid97:** I literally didn’t even know you knew each other

**@10_cd:** Marns quits hockey then dates the #1 draft pick. fuckin sports nerd

**@zachhyman:** big jersey glo-up (is that what the kids say?)

> **@morganreilly:** this is definitely a glo-down

**@marner_93:** still gonna sell your jersey on eBay 

> **@auston_matthews:** world’s worst boyfriend <3

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> TWs:  
> \- Auston has some built up angst about coming out and has not fully accepted himself and uses some language that suggests being gay is not normal/okay (no usage of slurs)  
> \- depiction of a panic attack  
> \- brief mention of past suicidal thoughts and other mental health problems  
> \- character outed without consent


End file.
